The Little Deerstalker Hat
by starlockian
Summary: Their father attacks their mother. Mycroft is all too aware. Little Sherlock is too young to understand. K plus for some violence.
1. Chapter 1

"Alright, boys. Time for bed," Mrs Holmes said firmly. "Enough jumping around, now."

The boys frowned and looked at each other.

"I'll tell you a story."

Sherlock and Mycroft ran up the stairs like a shot, tripping over their pyjama bottoms as they scrambled up to their room. Their mother came in and closed the door behind her, then sat on the plush armchair between the boys' beds. She pulled one boy onto each lap and cuddled them close. "What do you want a story about?" she asked.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his mother's warm neck. "Pirates!" he exclaimed.

"Not again! We always have a story about pirates. They're so_ boring_," Mycroft complained. "I want a story about brave knights who go on adventures and live in castles and eat lots of cake."

"Knights don't eat _cake,_ stupid," Sherlock retorted.

"Oh yes they do! They love cake. Any brave knight would be happy to return to his castle only to find that Cook has made him a yummy cake."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Am not!"

"You are. You always have been. You're an idiot."

"If I'm an idiot, so are you!"

"Boys!" Mrs Holmes sighed, exasperated. "No one is ridiculous, and no one is an idiot. Now get into your beds and I don't want a single mean word between you. Nothing good ever came out of people being mean to each other. The world has so many nasty people in it. Stay away from them and don't get involved. Now, for every horrible man or woman there is somebody who is good and kind. Fill your life up with these people and never let them go, and never lose faith in this world, no matter how much darkness there is around you. Remember that and nothing will be difficult for you, my brilliant little boys. My clever boys, who love pirates and knights and cake. Sleep tight."

She kissed each of her sons on the cheek and left the room, switching off the lights. Mycroft waited a few seconds, and then turned on his side to face his brother.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned at Mycroft. "What?" he hissed.

"Where's Dad?"

"He said he was going out. Why?"

Mycroft grimaced in the darkness. "He's gone to the pub, then."

"And?"

"You don't get it, do you?"

"What?"

Mycroft was about to reply, but he was cut off by the sound of a door slamming. They could hear a raised voice slurring something indistinguishable.

"Mycroft, what's wrong with Daddy?" Sherlock's voice wobbled.

"Shut up," he hissed.

The voice outside growled with blind rage, and their mother's soothing only made it angrier. There was a silence, and then a thud. Sherlock started to wail in his bed.

"Shut. Up." Mycroft repeated himself through gritted teeth.

"I'm scared," Sherlock sobbed.

Mycroft sighed audibly and shuffled out of his bed into Sherlock's. He pulled the covers around them and held his younger brother close. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly.

There was screaming and shouting downstairs. Then the sound of glass breaking. Then a long, tortured howl. Then a last, heavy thud.

Mycroft tensed in the blackness of their room. He curled inwards around Sherlock and his body jerked with violent sobs. Sherlock was bewildered, confused tears running down his face, soaking the pillow.

"Mycroft?"

His brother didn't answer, only held Sherlock tighter.

"Mycroft?"

Still no answer.

"Mycroft, what's happening?"

Silence. They stayed like that for a long time, Mycroft sobbing raggedly with his face buried in Sherlock's hair and Sherlock curled up next to him, crying softly, not fully aware. They cried until they could cry no more, and with raw red eyes and aching lungs, they finally fell asleep.

Dawn crept through the windows, and a bird called to its mate amongst the trees. Sherlock opened his eyes and stumbled out of bed in a stupor. Crossing to the windows, he stretched on his tiptoes to open the curtains wide. He peered out onto the street. His eyes widened. He jumped onto his bed and shook Mycroft awake. Wordlessly, Sherlock pulled him by the sleeve over to the window to look out of it at the scene below. Three police cars converged around their door, and one car door opened. A tall man in a police uniform stepped out. He had gray hair and somehow reminded Sherlock of an old working horse, professional and sturdy.

Sherlock started when he realised that the policeman was making his way to their door. He wondered if he should let him in. It was probably not a good idea to keep a man like that waiting. He must have lots of important things to do, Sherlock thought. He made for the bedroom door when Mycroft pulled him back.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm letting the police in."

"No."

"Why not?"

"You shouldn't go downstairs."

"Why not? We'll have to one day."

"Not now."

There was a loud crash as the policemen kicked the door in. There were some small noises like people walking around, then the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.

"Is there anybody up here?" a deep male voice called.


	2. Chapter 2

"Is anybody up there?" a deep male voice called.

"In here, please!" Sherlock chirped.

A few strides and the grey-haired man was in the room, bringing with him the smell of cigar smoke and a weathered black umbrella, which he used as a walking stick as he hobbled into the room. The man was clearly close to retirement age, and his cloudy eyes scanned the room like a bloodhound until they came to rest on the uneasy brothers in the centre of the room.

"Hello there. Don't you worry, you're safe now. I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, but you can call me Arthur. Would you like to come down with me?"

Sherlock put his hand into Arthur's outstretched one, but Mycroft hung back.

"That's it, there's a good lad- what's your name then?"

"I'm Sherlock. And he's Mycroft. He's my brother."

"Sherlock? That's a lovely unusual name. And Mycroft? Why don't you come with me, Mycroft, and we'll get you boys somewhere safe in no time? There's a good lad."

Mycroft scowled, but grabbed his brother's hand tightly, and the three of them went onto the landing, linked by their hands.

"Now, boys, you need to trust me on this one. When you go downstairs, you go straight out the door. No looking in the living room, that's probably best," instructed Arthur, shuffling down the steps.

But as they went down, Sherlock's curiosity got the better of him and he turned his head towards the open living room door.

His mother lay on the carpet there, barely recognisable for the bruises. Her eyes were wide open in frozen terror and her thick brown hair was matted with blood. That was all Sherlock saw before Mycroft pulled him away from the bottom step, out of the door and away from his mother. Sherlock thrashed in his brother's grip. "Mummy!" he howled. He managed to break free of Mycroft's hold and ran at the door. He collided with the cushiony stomach of a wide-jawed police officer who caught him and steered him around by the shoulders towards the waiting police car. Sherlock allowed himself to be led to the car, sullen and too tired to fight back.

Inside, Mycroft was already waiting. Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes full of tears. Mycroft's face softened, but he turned his head towards the left window before Sherlock could ask any of the burning questions he had. Instead, Sherlock settled for moving to the middle seat and resting his head on his brother's shoulder.

Arthur sat himself in the driver's seat with some difficulty. He closed his door and started the engine. They were moving. Out of the drive, away from the house, to some foreign place that wasn't home.

"So how old are you lads?" questioned Arthur with a glance into his rear-view mirror. "Five," Sherlock answered desolately. "My brother's twelve. That's it." There was an awkward silence, with Arthur wondering what to say and Sherlock trying to accept his mother was gone. Who knows what cogs were whirring in Mycroft's mind? Who knows what thoughts and feelings he had? From that day, Mycroft Holmes wore a mask. No screaming man or werewolf face. Something far more ghastly. An impenetrable barrier for his emotions, containing a ticking time bomb.


	3. Chapter 3

After countless minutes of sighs and stuffy silence, the police car finally pulled up in front of a bleak red brick building. It looked like a house, with sparse hedge lining the top of the low brick walls skirting the building. There was a tall wooden sign mounted on the dry front lawn reading 'Jane Addams Children's Home' in thick blue lettering. The salmon pink paint on the door was chipping pitifully, and dreary yellowed curtains hung in the windows. Mycroft huffed and snapped off his seatbelt as soon as Arthur had stopped the engine. The old man struggled out of the driver's seat, pulling his umbrella out of the passenger side and hobbling into the road. He slammed his door shut with some effort and opened the door for Sherlock. The boy hopped out and walked around the back of the car to stand by the opposite door where Mycroft was eyeing the house with distaste.

"Come on, Crofty," Sherlock mouthed through the closed window. "Don't leave me alone."

Mycroft looked at his brother- or seemed to look straight through him- but he opened his door, glided out and shut the door behind him in a swift, ghostly movement. Sherlock was already following Arthur up the stone path like a wide-eyed puppy. Mycroft wondered how his little brother could be so trusting, especially after all that had happened. Why wasn't Sherlock destroyed from the inside out?

Mycroft skulked along the path, but couldn't stop himself from rushing forward when he realised that Arthur was holding the door open for him.

Inside, crayon drawings peppered the off-white walls. The smell of meat cooking filled the warm air, and a beige carpeted staircase almost filled the thin corridor. There was one white door on either side just before the stairs, and the moment the front door shut, the one on the right side opened to reveal a portly woman wearing an apron. Her messy copper curls were pinned up around her huge-cheeked face and her smile was a mile wide, showing straight white teeth. She gave a little "ooh!" as she registered the newcomers.

"Well, hello there! Are these our new friends?" the woman asked brightly.

Sherlock shifted behind Arthur slightly. This lady looked quite nice and he was sure she would make a good friend, but he didn't want to draw attention to himself and look silly.

"They certainly are," Arthur said. "This strapping young man's Mycroft and the boy here is Sherlock. Boys, this is Mrs. Hooper. She's going to be looking after you."

"Oh, do call me Evelyn. No need for formalities- we're all comfy-close here. Hello, little Sherlock and Mycroft."

Sherlock was considering what _comfy-close_ could possibly mean when he heard his name. He supposed that if he and Evelyn were going to be friends then he would have to say something. So he offered a little _hello_ from under his long eyelashes.

"Ah, no need to be shy, sweetheart. You're among friends. Welcome to Jane Addams Home. You're going to be staying here for a little while. We'll take care of you here." Evelyn got up from where she was crouching in front of Sherlock and faced an unsmiling Mycroft.

"Mycroft! It's nice to meet you. I'm Evelyn, but you know that already, don't you?" Evelyn chuckled. Mycroft thought she looked rather like a clown, all excessive make up and uncalled-for laughter. He grunted in assent, and Arthur shot him a warning glance, which Mycroft chose to ignore.

Evelyn looked flustered for a minute, then put her hands together and smiled at the boys.

"Let me show you to your rooms, then."


End file.
